something like ashes
by possibilist
Summary: ['She'd taken a role in a brilliant, absolutely profound film about two women who fall in love in a concentration camp. You'd imagined, when she told you, all of this happening, even before she'd managed to come to grips with it herself.' Rachel is shooting a really emotionally draining film, Quinn & others are there to support her. Features fababies, Santana, Kurt, angst & fluff.
1. it's a blessing

['She'd taken a role in a brilliant, absolutely profound film about two women who fall in love in a concentration camp. You'd imagined, when she told you, all of this happening, even before she'd managed to come to grips with it herself.' Rachel is shooting a really emotionally draining film, Quinn & others are there to support her. Features fababies, Santana, Kurt, angst & fluff. Compilation of drabbles that were originally posted on tumblr.]

* * *

><p><strong>it's a blessing (everyday someone shows up at the fence)<strong>

.

you're never an imposition. when you love someone, you know, you join in their war.

—abbigail, in a recent email to me

/

You knew the minute she got the script and let you read it a few hours later that all of this was bound to happen, but you're used to being the one with nightmares, and it's unnerving. When you wake without her in your arms, the night after she gets back from Poland, you don't wonder what had woken her up.

You make sure Nora is stil asleep—she's just turned 14 months old, and she looks just like Rachel, you think, which never fails to give you such hope of healing—but she's peaceful, her little face completely smooth, her eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

So you walk out of Nora's nursery and down the hall. Rachel had looked hollow—your usually bubbly, exuberant wife—when you'd met her at JFK in the late afternoon. She looks different than you're used to—she's lost a little weight, she's cut her hair—but it's not those things, not really, although you are shaken by them, no matter how much you try, for her, not to be.

But what you're really shaken by is when you find her staring out your kitchen window—your beautiful, stylish and completely remodeled brownstone on Central Park West—shoulders hunched. You don't even need to look at her eyes; you know they're haunted right now.

You make a little noise as you pad into the kitchen, and she slumps, but she doesn't recoil in fear. She turns toward you, and her face is sharper without the softness of her hair—you still think she's beautiful, she'll always be beautiful, but this is a lot of both of you to handle.

"Baby," you say, when you see her knotting her hands in front of her.

She'd taken a role in a brilliant, absolutely profound film about two women who fall in love in a concentration camp. You'd imagined, when she told you, all of this happening, even before she'd managed to come to grips with it herself. At first, it was an acting exercise that Rachel had gotten, as always, way into, and you've learned by now to just roll with it. When she'd told you she wanted to cut her hair for the part, you'd kissed her deeply, bought her Harry Winston, told her she was beautiful before and after, no differently—and you believe that, but you'd cried in your office at work the next day. It's been hard, watching Rachel become quieter as filming has gone on. She still bursts into song with Nora sometimes, but it's not nearly as grand as you're used to, and it's been two months since she touched you with anything near fucking—making gentle, soft love to Rachel is never something you don't want, but you miss her sure, powerful body sometimes.

Acting is her craft, though, and you staunchly support her, just as she does you with all of your theoretical whims, jaunts to Europe, fascination with architectonics, avid television watching. This, you're learning quite concretely, is what a marriage is about. Nora had been, in no uncertain terms, the best of times, and this is nearing the worst,

You aren't mad, or even thinking of being unfaithful: you're just watching your wife suffer. She'd gotten back from six days of filming in Krakow and surrounding areas, and when you'd met her at the airport she'd been bundled in a hat and scarf and coat, and she'd hugged you for a long time, just leaned into you.

She hadn't cried though, and you're sort of hoping she will now—you want her to be honest with you, even if that honesty is heartbreaking. Members of her family were killed where she just filmed, and her character in the film dies, and you have no idea how to ask about those things: Rachel has always been proud of her heritage, and the more you've read, the more you realize you'd have been put in those camps too, if you'd been brave enough to love who and what you do. Eleven million people died, and you both could've so easily been two of them if the time and space of your existence were just so slightly different.

She swallows across from you, her collarbones jutting from beneath one of your old tshirts from college. She's pulled on sweatpants over her underwear from when you'd fallen into bed after a few beers together.

"Did I wake you up?" she asks, voice softer than you're used to.

You shake your head. "I'm just—you know." You shrug helplessly, because you've been worried for the last eight weeks, since they started filming, but neither you nor Rachel really have many comforts.

She walks toward you and puts her arms around your waist, kisses you softly, the tucks her head into your shoulder. You hold her with all of your might, so gently, so strongly, and you feel hot tears soak your sweatshirt.

Neither of you say anything for a while until she just mumbles, "I'm so close to being done with this shit."

It's so unexpected that an ungraceful laugh overtakes you, and she looks up at you, confused for a moment, before she grins. It's so welcome tears prick dangerously at the backs of your eyes, but you just kiss her forehead. Her hair is buzzed a little unevenly right now for the last stretches of the film, but it's soft, and you know it'll grow back.

"It was awful," she says, calmly leading you back down the hallway. "It's—we visited earlier, so. You know."

You nod—at one of your conferences in Warsaw, Rachel had come and you'd taken a few days to vacation in Poland, and, upon her prompting, visited Auschwitz. It'd made you physically sick once you got back to your hotel—both the remnants of the place and your inability to comprehend it—which is another reason you think this film is so important: so many people haven't had their stories told, and this script is a gentle, aching one, quiet and, in so many shocking and human ways, lovely.

She shrugs. "But then there's you and Nora and everyone and—you're really real, right?"

You smile crookedly, lay down and tug her to your chest, make sure her ear is pressing to your sternum, just above your heart. "Totally really real, baby."

"Sometimes it's hard to get out of that headspace, filming," she says. "But then there's you."

It makes your throat tighten painfully, almost, how simply she says it. All you've ever wanted to be—in life, for yourself, for Rachel—is a safe space. Your academic work is about it, you try every day to make things just a little gentler.

"i've no idea why I married you," you say.

Rachel laughs, although it's exhausted and not nearly as loud as usual—but it's a laugh, and she's falling asleep, so you smile.

"I love you," she says. "And I'm sorry—"

You lean down and kiss her, then shake your head. "Do not apologize for this, okay? You're doing something so valuable and brave right now and I just want you to be okay."

She aims for your lips and misses, getting your chin, and you both laugh. "Come on, jet lagged human, get some sleep, yeah?"

"You'll be right here?" she checks.

"Well, yeah, it's my bed too."

"Idiot," she mumbles against your chest, breath warm, and you hold tightly. In a few months she'll—quite predictably, at that point—win an Oscar for her performance, which will make her the youngest EGOT winner by years. She'll be graceful and eloquent and always so respectful when speaking about her role in interviews, and she'll recover quickly, beautifully: she'll let you feed her dessert, let you take her to the park in the afternoons, let her hair grow out, start sparkling and laughing and booming classic Barbra in the shower at six in the morning again. But for now, she's fallen asleep listening to your life pound away, and for now, you see her through all of the shadows.


	2. a string of coincidences that gathered

**a string of coincidences that gathered significance (& became miracles)**

.

our histories cling to us. we are shaped by where we come from.

—chimamanda ngozi adichie

/

Rachel laughs loudly as Quinn sort of pops out of a pile of leaves. Harrison excited licks Quinn's face, puts his big, clumsy paws on her shoulders and almost tips her over. You're holding Nora, who is watching the whole thing with delighted squeals. And okay, it's not really the worst day—it's stunning in late autumn, a warmer day than the dreary rain that you'd had for the past week, and central park is all fire drenched leaves and dreamy skyline. Santana is trying to resist smiling, but Megan is attempting to feed her a cookie, and your boyfriend, Dominik, is smiling at the whole scene. You'd been nervous to introduce him to your group of longtime friends—they're close enough that you consider them family at this point, and you're Nora's godfather, so it fits—but they'd, unsurprisingly, been welcoming after their typical dramatics: Rachel had quizzed him intensely, Quinn had glared, Santana made a number of jokes about a variety of stereotypes about Central Europe, Megan had tried to overfeed him multiple times, but he'd been gracious during the entire thing, and now you're sure they all love him.

Nora starts clapping when Rachel tosses leaves in Quinn's direction and they blow back at her instead, which Harrison chases clumsily. Quinn is breathless and her cheeks are flushed, her sweater and scarf and coat crooked. Autumn has always suited her, you've always thought, even more than spring: her eyes turn strikingly gold, she's always known how to wear a good trench coat and cashmere sweater. She and Rachel try to corral Harrison and Santana scrambles back when he starts to trot over to her instead.

"He's a golden retriever puppy, San," Megan says, scratching behind his ears as his tongue lolls happily. "Just about as intimidating as Quinn."

Quinn scoffs. "I'm more intimidating than Harrison."

Rachel grins and kisses her cheek. "Whatever you say, baby."

Quinn rolls her eyes, but she snuggles into Rachel's side happily. The first few times, years ago, when you'd seen Rachel hold Quinn, you'd been surprised at Quinn Fabray's softness in those moments, but now you've learned to expect both sensitivity and strength from both of them. Harrison lays down, head on Megan's lap, and there's a peaceful, quiet moment that you all seem to sink into: the past few months have been tough on everyone, because you are family, and Rachel and Quinn had had some struggles. Not with their marriage, or their life together, but just dealing with the film Rachel was shooting. But they wrapped about three weeks ago, and everything has already lightened so much. And, as a present to Quinn for being so lovely—and she really was—during the whole thing, Rachel had given her Harrison: Quinn had wanted a dog for a while, but Rachel had been hesitant. He's adorable, and whenever you see him and Quinn together you really do think they sort of match, even though you'd never actually tell her that.

Today is a quiet celebration of sorts for all of you, really. Rachel has gained back a little bit of the weight she's lost, and her eyes are brighter, more settled. Her hair is growing into this little soft pixie that you think is adorable, this rich natural brown that's starting to curl. Rachel has always been beautiful in such a fascinating way, and now you can only make out her features more clearly, and she really is stunning, although it'd taken a few days it get used to when she first started filming—Quinn had texted you the day Rachel had cut it before Quinn had seen it: just gave literally the worst lecture of my life bc i keep thinking of rachel's (lack of) hair & should we laugh or cry at that reaction? lol—and you'd ended up having lunch with her and then going to Harry Winston instead of letting her go back to office hours, where she'd dropped $30,000 on a diamond bracelet—in retrospect, taking a nervous, emotional Quinn to buy jewelry for her wife wasn't your smartest choice, but it's a gorgeous bracelet anyhow.

But today everyone is goofing around, acting slightly younger than your thirty-two years.

And then you hear a timid, "Dr. Berry-Fabray?" and watch with intense amusement as Quinn tries to wipe whipped cream off her chin that Rachel, you know, had been planning on kissing away. "Joshua," she says, straightening her scarf as much as possible; you're pretty sure her leggings are twisted around at this point, so it's not particularly helping. "Hello."

"Hey," he—Joshua, apparently—says, then tries to fight a smile when Rachel picks a leaf from Quinn's hair before Quinn stands up—not particularly gracefully at that. Joshua's dark skin stands out against the blue of his Columbia sweatshirt, and you figure he's one of Quinn's students; in college he would've been the kind of boy you'd flirted with relentlessly—he's tall and cute, a handsome smile.

Quinn stands at her full height, but she's in leggings and a scuffed pair of ankle boots, an oversized sweater, and there's definitely still whipped cream on her chin. Rachel stands up too and brushes off Quinn's butt—Santana starts laughing, and Megan and Dominik smile—and then Rachel sticks out her hand professionally and says, "Hello, I'm Rachel Berry-Fabray, Quinn's wife."

He shakes it almost reverently; it's not like Rachel hasn't been decently well-known for years now, and this film, you're sure, will send her career booming in a direction she never could've dreamed in high school. "Joshua," he says, "I'm in Dr. Berry-Fabray's queer effacement in performance seminar."

Santana mutters, "Ew," and Dominik asks, "What in the world is that?" but Rachel grins.

"That's one of her favorites to teach," she says, then walks to you and picks up Nora. "This is our daughter."

Nora reaches toward Quinn, who takes her gently, and Joshua can't help but smile then. "Nora," Quinn says, and at hearing her name, Nora reaches up and sticks one of her fingers up Quinn's nose, says, "Mama," a few times.

Quinn is trying desperately, you know, to still seem intimidating, but then Harrison bounds from Megan's lap and knocks into Quinn's legs before going to Joshua. "And that's Harrison," Quinn drawls, and Rachel bursts into laughter at Quinn's stony facial expression.

She kisses Quinn's cheek and says, "Come on baby," and Quinn sighs but nods.

"Were you taking a break from Quinn's synthesis essay?" Rachel asks, bending down to pet Harrison too.

Joshua nods. "It's a bitch," he says, and finally Quinn cracks a smile.

"Damn right," she says, and sits back down, bouncing Nora on her lap. "We're having our own wrap party for Mommy, aren't we, Nor?" she sing-songs when Nora starts to fuss.

Joshua sits down and asks, "You just finished filming something?"

Rachel nods, and looks and Quinn, and for a moment, her eyes flash with sorrow.

"We're all just thrilled she's back to her loud antics," Santana pipes up, then offers her hand. "Santana Lopez, Assistant District Attorney."

Megan laughs and Quinn rolls her eyes, and Megan says, "I'm Megan, and Santana is my wife, and she's been Quinn's best friend since they were fourteen, so don't let her try to scare you."

You all end up smiling and introducing yourself, and Quinn gets softer by the minute. You're pretty sure she's sleepy for reasons you don't ever want to think about but have to anyway because Rachel is your best friend and unfortunately hearing a few details about lesbian sex—lesbian sex with Quinn Fabray, at that—have slipped out over the years.

"Joshua, do you have time to finish our picnic with us?" Rachel asks, and Joshua looks toward Quinn, who nods with a sigh.

"She made enough food for like twenty people anyway," she relents, and Rachel delightedly kisses her, and Joshua laughs, digging into vegan couscous salad while Rachel launches into descriptions of all of the food she'd packed.

For a while, you'd been worried about her, about the darkness she'd had to learn: she'd made a film about so many things she must have always been terrified of, horrified by, but from what you've seen of post-production so far, she'll probably win an Oscar and a host of other awards for her performance, and you don't even have to begrudgingly acknowledge that Quinn was a huge part of how Rachel was even able to tap into that, even if she brought it home with her some days.

Everything is gentle and bright today, and Santana cuts Joshua off with an embarrassing story about Quinn at Yale the minute he says anything to Quinn about school, and Harrison steals a piece of vegan sushi off of your plate, and Nora falls asleep in Quinn's arms as Rachel leans on Quinn's shoulder. They share this small, perfect moment that Joshua sees, along with anyone else, and Quinn kisses the tiny scar on Rachel's forehead that runs into her hairline—for the first time in years you'd been able to see it—and Rachel's eyes flutter closed for a second. They sort of take your breath away, how much they're always falling in love.

Then Quinn straightens up and says, "You're all ruining my reputation," with a really, really pathetic pout, and you smirk, and Santana says, "What reputation, Lucy Q?" as Rachel kisses Quinn with laugh.

"Oh, baby," she says.

Joshua grins. "Secret's safe with me, Dr. Berry-Fabray," he assures.

Quinn can't help but smile, and you ruffle Rachel's hair when she scoots over to you and offers another cookie, the leaves and the city twirling healing magic all around.


	3. hello torn soul (it is too easy to say)

hello torn soul (it is too easy to say)

.

adorno said, 'to write poetry after auschwitz is barbaric,' which is probably why we must still do it.

—my lacanian seminar professor

/

You're exhausted when you make your way home from the studio, barely managing to stay awake in the car. Today was another long day—you've worked longer hours before, but never hours like this, never with this much devastation. You'd filmed a scene today that was the aftermath of your character being raped, and you don't know if you really have words right now.

It's a startling thing for you, to not have words. You've built your life on them, on how talented you are at speaking, singing, knowing those words. At languaging things. It's one of the many reasons you love Quinn so much, that she understands your talent for them. She's talented too, immensely so, in a slightly more subdued sense, but really—you've both made a living off of words.

Until now, at least, because for the past few days you've been coming home unable to really speak. Quinn is struggling with what to begin to do to help; you've been distant with her and with Nora, having trouble kissing your wife and holding your when all you can think about is how they would've been killed so carelessly. You'd been better, when you first started filming, because you know very logically that this is acting, that this film is going to win so many awards and that it's a film that needs to be made, but it's wearing on you, especially since you filmed in Poland, despite your costars and the crew being relentlessly funny, despite your attempts to never bring this work home with you: when you look in the mirror you see your buzzed hair, sunken eyes, too-thin frame, and you really look like someone who has seen horrors.

But you climb up the steps to your brownstone wearily. All you want right now is to kiss your daughter goodnight, heat up the leftover pad thai Quinn had made last night, have a beer and cuddle with your wife on the couch. You're in one of Quinn's cashmere sweaters—it's soft and the sleeves slip over your hands, and it smells like her, and you need all the comfort you can get. You unlock the front door and drop your keys in the small bowl on the table there, slip off your boots, pad into the open living room and kitchen. You don't bother to check your reflection in the mirror—you don't want to think about it, want to be held and vulnerable instead of how removed you've been lately. You know that Quinn wants another child, and you've been thinking about it, or at least having a pointed conversation about trying, but you hadn't been anywhere near a space where you could think of anything to say about that. Tonight, you feel like you'd been ripped open earlier, but you realize that you're home and that it's warm and safe, and you focus on that.

Quinn walks out of her office and smiles tiredly but sweetly when she sees you, says, "Hey honey," and kisses you hello without any hesitation.

"Hi," you say, and wrap her in a hug before taking a deep breath and then a long sigh. She hums happily—she's missed you, you know—and holds you gently, rocking back and forth a little. "How was your day?" you ask into her shoulder.

"Lots of bureaucratic bullshit and students who didn't do the readings," she says, then laughs. "The usual."

You smile, smell her old, worn tshirt unabashedly. She loves her job, you know, but she gets frustrated from time to time with the parts that take away from learning, as she says. She backs up a little and you pout at the lack of contact, which makes her reach out and stroke your cheek with the pad of her thumb, then kiss you gently, sucking your lip into her mouth. You haven't really kissed her in a few days, and you realize how much you've craved it.

"How are you doing?" she whispers between kisses.

"Now?" you ask, kiss her again. "Or how was my day?"

She laughs into your mouth. "I'm more interested in now, but if you have something really important to share—I mean, Nora is asleep, so—"

You step back and grin, loop your arms around her neck, reach one hand into her hair. Missing yours makes you love the softness and silkiness of Quinn's even more, and her eyes flash excitedly. "You're horny, Quinn Berry-Fabray, aren't you?"

You love that she's thirty-two and has been married to you for four years but her cheeks still tint pink when you say it. "Maybe," she says.

You grin and take a step back; you're sometimes still floored that she wants you like she does—she's still the prettiest girl you've ever met—but especially now, you're always flattered that she touches you with the same longing as always.

But then all of a sudden she recoils—takes a sharp breath in, eyes wide and flashing like you've never seen before.

"Quinn, baby, what's—"

"The number," she chokes out.

"What?"

"On your arm," she says, "your—the—number, Rachel."

"Shit," you say. Your sleeve had slipped up and you'd forgotten to wash it off when you were done filming; it's a direct replica of a concentration camp tattoo, covering two inches on the top of your right forearm, slightly messy, green. You yank your sleeve down and try to reach for Quinn, but she backs up toward the couch, trembling. She's been remarkable, really, in keeping it together for you this whole time, but you know Quinn, and you know she's about to break.

And she does, quietly, right in front of you—she sits down on the couch, puts her head in her hands, and starts weeping.

You don't really know what to do, because obviously this is uncharted territory for you, and you stand unsteadily, hovering between turning around and going to the kitchen to wash it off, or going to hold your wife. She's crying silently, shaking, and you start to shift your weight backward in the direction of the sink, but then she reaches out and tugs on your wrist. You still, and she stands up, and then she kisses you. Kisses you. Quinn has always been an amazing kisser, but in all for your entire life, you'll always think of this as the most profound kiss you'd ever experienced. She kisses you like you could've died; she kisses you because of suffering; she kisses you like she's breathed the entire improbability of your existences in this place in one moment. It makes your heart drop and lift at once, and she tastes like salt, and you don't know quite what to do other than kiss her back.

She backs up after a while, after she breathes into your mouth before barely, barely brushing her lips against yours once more, and then laces your fingers together and leads you silently to your bathroom, lifts the sweater up over your head. She skims her hands over the press of your ribs, then tugs down your jeans and traces your hipbones. You're not comfortable with your weight, and it's been hard for Quinn too, but tonight she takes off her clothes in a flash and then shuffles you both under the stream of the shower. You're pretty sure she doesn't want to make love, and you're proven right when she takes the bar of soap and then lifts your forearm and washes it so, so gently it makes you start to cry.

"I love you," she says. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

The ink rubs off fairly quickly, and you take the shampoo you haven't needed to use in two months and work it into Quinn's hair slowly. Her eyes are pressed shut so it doesn't drip into them, and it makes her look infinitely younger and less seriously, and it seems, in a moment, to lighten everything, because her nose is scrunched up and you can't help but smile at her.

She rinses out her hair—which is always sexy, but not your priority at the moment—and when she opens her eyes, she smiles a little at your expression. You kiss her on the edge of a laugh, and then you tickle her side, and you sort of trip out of the shower, turning the water off quickly while Quinn squirms away from you. But you take a towel and wrap it around her, meet her eyes, and say, "Okay?"

She swallows, lets out a breath, but eventually nods. She rubs the pad of her thumb against the shell of your ear and then playfully runs her hand over your hair, spraying both of you in the face with little droplets. "I'm just glad you're here, weirdo."

You smile and kiss her cheek, grab a towel of your own and dry off. She cancels her office hours the next day after you share a bottle of wine and fall asleep on the couch, and you take Nora to the park and then just watch lazy films together all afternoon. When Quinn falls asleep first, Nora on her chest, her head in your lap, you lightly play with her fingers, trace her wedding band, rub Nora's back. They're beautiful, and they're yours, and they're so, so real.


	4. what's invisible sings & we bear witness

**what's invisible sings (& we bear witness)**

.

i prefer to explore the most intimate moments, the smaller, crystallized details we all hinge our lives on.

—rita dove

/

You'd made sure to grumble for the entire conversation and insult Rachel as many times as possible—you haven't lost your touch, really, you just never mean it anymore—but as you beat some asshole on his bluetooth to a cab, juggling your briefcase and a few boxes of vegan Chinese food, you don't really mind at all. You're out of the office early, first of all, and your caseload had been insane lately—not that you necessarily mind in theory: your success rate is the best in the state, which means you put away quite a few shitty humans regularly; you get offers from private firms all the time, and you'd make tons more money, but you'd gone into the public sector for a very concrete reason, even before you'd met your wife, but now there's nothing that could really draw you away from the important work you're doing.

The hours are usually shit, though, so you're glad for the very valid early break: Rachel had texted you this morning that Quinn had caught Nora's cold and they were both staying home, and would you mind bringing them lunch and staying with them for a bit? You'd made sure to scoff at Rachel's overreaction and worry, and you'd also blatantly ignored her suggestions of superpacked foods to give them to help them fight off their colds—you'd wanted fried rice, and you know Quinn won't care at all what you bring as long as it's hot.

You read a few emails on the way and pay your fare, climb out as gracefully as possible. They have an admittedly gorgeous brownstone right next to the park, and you'll never say it aloud, but Quinn's penchant for these soft colors and stylish, clean lines make the interior, like, lovely. In any case you're just glad that Rachel ended up letting Quinn take the lead on that one—there are a few framed playbills on one wall in the living room, but they're the small versions, and only shows Rachel has actually been in; the rest of their place manages to be minimalist but comforting, and, yeah, Quinn doesn't have the worst taste, whatever.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the front door—you've had a key to Quinn's place(s) since college—and slip your heeled boots off; it's been rainy lately and you know Rachel will throw a fit if you track dirt onto their perfect hardwood. When you pad into the kitchen to get lunch ready, you're unsurprised to see Quinn asleep on the couch with Nora resting on her chest. Both of them are annoyingly graceful sleepers, and neither you nor Megan really want kids, so Nora is as close as you really have—for as much shit as you love to give your best friends, that little girl is one of the most amazing things you've ever seen, and you don't even care that you spoil her as much as possible; she's already growing up with so much love, and for that you'll never be apologetic.

Nora coughs just a little and Quinn's raspy breathing hitches, and you take the opportunity to start taking plates out of the cabinet, making as much noise as you can. Quinn groans, kissing the top of Nora's head with a little bit of disorientation, so you say, "Aren't you just a joy today?"

Quinn tries to bite out a confused, "Fuck you, Santana," but it gets lost in a cough and Nora's reaching toward you. You pause your divvying up of lunch and walk around the island to pick her up, and Quinn slumps back into the couch.

You don't say anything to her, only hum to Nora and bounce her up and down, but you pay attention to Quinn's breathing, her posture, whether or not she successfully hides her grimace. She moves stiffly to stand up, and you're pretty sure she's not fully awake, and she's bundled in these absurd sweatpants and one of Robert's stolen sweaters, a pair of Rachel's socks covering her feet.

She shuffles to the island without incident, though, and her breathing seems okay, so you don't push any questions for the time being. Quinn checks her phone while you put more food on plates, and you catch her roll her eyes with a very stupidly sweet smile you've gotten more and more used to over the years.

"Rachel send you nudes again?" you ask, putting Nora's bib on.

Quinn doesn't dignify you with a response, only sits down on her barstool and grabs a pair of chopsticks.

You laugh, ruffle her hair as you walk past her. "Come on, Lucy Q, you can't be that grumpy."

She clears her throat and then sighs. "I just don't feel good," she says, and it's petulant and whiny—it's a strangely good sign, because when Quinn is actually seriously ill or hurt, she tries to hide it so she doesn't scare anyone. Pathetically sick Quinn is mostly amusing, so you rub her back once before putting her food in front of her before sitting down across the island and starting to feed Nora pieces of your soy orange chicken.

Quinn seems to relax a little once she eats a bit, and you're even more relieved; there are times that you wish you didn't care about Quinn, about Rachel and their family—sometimes their intensity scares you; sometimes you're struck with fear of what would happen to either of them now if the other wasn't there; you adore both of them, really, and Quinn has been your best friend for longer of you usually acknowledges, but you have Megan, and even the thought of losing her makes you verge on distraught.

And then Quinn is sick, and then Rachel is making a film about dying in a fucking concentration camp, and the way they keep falling in love is as beautiful as it is terrifying, because you know you'd be there in the fallout.

But then Quinn sighs happily and straightens a little, asks, "How's the Castello case going?" with very genuine interest.

Nora babbles randomly while you tell Quinn all of the details you legally can, and it's one of your biggest cases in a while, so her unwavering attention makes you love her a little bit more. You watch her try four times—with a very, very serious face—to get her chow mein noodles wrapped around her chopsticks in a coherent fashion, but her coordination is entirely shot, and she sighs in frustration before putting down her chopsticks and taking off her glasses, closing her eyes. She's dealt with random spurts of double vision and some mild aphasia since she was seventeen, and they still embarrass her, but you're used to it for the most part, so you just grab a fork from the drawer and hand it to her without comment.

She takes it with some resignation, but she's much more successful, and you check, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she mumbles around a mouthful of noodles, and you scrunch your nose.

"Manners, Quinn," you say, in a perfect imitation of Rachel, which makes Quinn laugh and get spray noodles at you. Nora bursts into laughter then, and you fight a smile.

"Your mom is a fucking slob, Nor," you say, pulling your hair back in a ponytail before you lean forward to wipe off her face—she loves tugging on hair, and to Quinn's infinite amusement, yours seems to be Nora's favorite.

"Can you say hi to Aunt San, Nora?" Quinn asks, standing and stacking your plates.

"Hi," Nora says, and then says something along the lines of "Aunt San," which sends Quinn off into a fit of clapping, exceedingly proud mom that she is. But it almost makes you cry and Nora says it a few more times—then claps for herself, and yeah, she's Rachel's kid—and you kiss her forehead.

"That's right, I'm your Aunt Santana, and I'm the coolest person in your life by a longshot, kid, don't worry."

She laughs amid a little cough, and Quinn smiles softly and says, "She needs another dose of tylenol—it's by the sink."

You spot the little bottle and syringe and get the right dose as Quinn puts things in the dishwasher, and Nora takes it like a pro, which you congratulate her for afterward, because the shit looks nasty.

You look pointedly at Quinn when she breaks out into a few deep, disgusting coughs, and ask, "Have you taken your tylenol?"

You know the answer already: Quinn resists taking care of herself unlike anyone you've ever known—once a Fabray, always a Fabray—and when she doesn't answer, you hand her Nora with an eyeroll and shoo them to the couch, turn on the tea kettle and find the tylenol in their immaculate and alphabetized medicine cabinet, get out two pills and bring them over with a cup of tea for Quinn.

She takes them without a word of protest, so she must actually be both exhausted and actually sick, and she lays down with Nora again when you turn on whatever obscene and violent HBO miniseries she's marathoning at the moment—Quinn writes on "award-winning television" for her professorship, so it always gives the two of you an excuse to watch whatever you want, even though you're starting to think Nora is getting old enough to pick up some words.

Both of them are out way too fast for you to even comment on how much better Claire Danes' boobs are than Quinn's, which is disappointing, but really—they're kind of beautiful, Nora's head tucked into Quinn's chest, Quinn's arms cradling her protectively. You're entirely sure you don't want kids—you don't have the time or energy or patience or fucking bravery to raise a child in this world—but you are glad, every day, that Quinn and Rachel have those things in spades.

You grab your Mac and do some work on your latest case while the TV plays in the background, and Rachel gets home about two hours later, thin and drained as usual for this film, but then she sees her wife and child asleep gently on their pretty couch in their pretty home, and she softens and strengthens in the same breath.

"They ate okay?" she asks, and you nod, then stand.

You don't even bother trying to worm your way out of a hug—sometimes you wonder how you avoided them for so long, because Rachel's hugs are awesome—and you say, "Yeah, they seem okay. Gross coughs but other than that they're both pretty pathetic and whiny, so everything seems safe."

Rachel laughs and nods—she plays into Quinn's pouting and shuffling entirely but you know she doesn't take it too seriously—and then tugs off her hat and coat, rubs a hand over her hand, sits in a chair with a sigh, props her feet up on the table.

"How's work?" she asks, and you roll her eyes and indulge her with the juiciest version of any story you have—Rachel is still under the impression that your job mirrors something like Law & Order, and you both know she doesn't want to talk about filming, so you exaggerate every possible case you can.

Eventually, you realize you have to go to make your early dinner date with Megan—you don't even know when talking to Rachel became so enjoyable, but it did—and you stand, rub Nora's back and then give Rachel another hug. She holds you tightly, with a bit of an aching familiarity. "Thanks, Santana," she says.

"Yeah, yeah," you say, although you squeeze her just as tightly. "Just like, all of you get better, okay?"

She smiles crookedly. "Four days," she says.

"Quinn won't let me forget it." You're looking forward to the end of filming too, though—mostly so you can give them as much shit as you want again.

You gather your things and tug on your boots, and Rachel gives you another hug as you're about to leave. "Give Megan our love, okay?"

"Sure thing," you say, and run to catch your cab in the rain. You go have dinner with your wife, confirm, for the fifth time, that yes, you and Megan are happy to host a small, personal wrap party next weekend for Rachel, and work a bit on an argument that's going to make the world just a little, tiny bit safer—you'd never guessed that your life would've been so full like this, but it is, and you'd not have it any other way.


	5. rain in my hands

[this might be my fav installment so far; you can message me on tumblr ( .com) if you want to see other POVs/have questions &/or suggestions]

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><p>when i hold you (you are rain in my hands)<p>

.

you know i dreamed about you/ for twenty-nine years/ before i saw you

—the national, 'slow show'

/

You've been watching Nora part-time for about ten months, although you've known Rachel and Quinn for over a year: you'd been surprised at first when you'd gone to the interview and their child wasn't even born yet, but then you actually met Rachel, and then it wasn't surprising at all.

You've adored Nora since the beginning, and for a few weeks Rachel and Quinn intimidated the hell out of you, but you've grown to be comfortable around them, despite—okay, you'd snooped a little, but harmlessly, you swear—Quinn's terrifying office and their insanely expensive wardrobes.

It's a pretty awesome job, really—the pay is killer, and Nora really is adorable and it's amazed you to watch her grow up, and it gives you time to focus on your art too. Quinn and Rachel are pretty great too, all things considered—Rachel is constantly making sure the fridge and pantry are stocked with food she'd noticed you'd favored, and one day Quinn invited you to stay for the takeout she'd brought when she got home from a meeting and Rachel was at her show so she "wouldn't feel guilty for drinking wine alone," you'd mentioned that your boyfriend was having top surgery in a month, she'd smiled into her masala and then asked the loveliest questions—none of which had to do with gender, just with the two of you. But she'd made sure, in the following weeks, to ask thoughtful questions about your schedule, whether or not you needed more time off, even if there was anything she and Rachel could do to help out. Her kindness in those moments softened everything about her, and you can't imagine her grading your papers—that's a horrifying thought in itself—but when you watch her with her daughter and her wife, you're not so scared at all.

They're pretty cute, all things considered. Rachel is usually loud, and last February—a week after Valentine's, which was weird but whatever—you'd come over to a brownstone full of vases of gardenias and their unmade bed, Rachel blushing furiously and Quinn wrapping a huge scarf around her neck. Quinn focused completely on her boots while Rachel had mumbled something about yesterday being important, and you'd only let yourself be amazed by how in love they are once they'd left for their respective jobs and you'd sat in their open living room and taken it all in. You're pretty serious with Justin, and you are in love with him, but Quinn and Rachel still manage to take your breath away on occasion: they've known each other since they were fourteen, Rachel tells you one night, been in love since eighteen, maybe sooner. Quinn gets sick every few months—Rachel had called you to watch Nora in the middle of the night once when they went to the hospital because Quinn was having trouble breathing—and you don't ask why, and neither of them really say anything to you, but once you come over and Quinn is wearily finishing breakfast and Rachel is rubbing her back. Quinn leaves first, with a cough and then this sort of sad kiss, and Rachel sighs when she leaves and says, "I can't imagine the world without her in it," very softly before collecting herself and bustling around to gather everything she needs for the day.

For the most part, though, they're happy, profoundly and simply. They have their off-days, and they bicker from time to time, but once, when you'd commented on how they seem to have such a good life, Quinn shrugged with a smile and said, "I got lucky, that's all."

The past few months had been hard, though—not that they're fighting, and they'd taken a few days in Paris a month ago, even, but Rachel's newest film had been, from all you've gathered, terribly difficult to deal with. You knew a lot about it, even though you weren't allowed to really say anything to anyone. They set up this crazy schedule with you for three months—they gave you a raise and thanked you profusely, but really, it was fine—and for a week or so you didn't really notice anything different. But then there were none of Rachel's favorite vegan sweets in the pantry—so you really like the gingersnaps from Trader Joe's, whatever—and Rachel had started to look just a little thinner, and then one day she came home with all of her hair buzzed off; you didn't really know what to do other than make sure to hold her gaze and not stare the entire time you told her about Nora's day. A few days later Quinn was obviously sniffling when she came home first. You learned that it was a movie about a concentration camp, and as everything grew more subdued, you didn't have to wonder why. You tried your hardest to keep things light and normal for Nora, but even she seemed just a little less vivacious, even though she had started to talk a little and still squealed on the swings at the park.

But tonight Rachel and Quinn had gone to a wrap party. It's late and Nora had gone to bed hours ago, and you're trying to stay awake by watching your favorite standup comedy—Quinn is a huge fan, so they have an impressive collection of recordings—even though they never mind if you fall asleep. You hear them struggling to open the door for a few seconds and smile to yourself; they'd come home drunk a handful of times before, and they're always amusing. They finally get the front door open and you hear Quinn say, "Yes," while Rachel booms a laugh, which makes your smile bloom into a grin, because yeah, you've missed that too, and then you hear a thump. It's quiet for a few seconds after that and you're about to go check on them when you hear a moan from Rachel, and then Quinn mumble something about "it's getting long enough to pull," and then a low growl from Quinn.

You make a bunch of noise as you feel your cheeks heat up, clear your throat, and they're quiet for another minute before you hear Quinn say, "I love you," and Rachel return the sentiment tenderly. They walk into the living room hand in hand, glassy-eyed, with swollen lips, Rachel trying to straighten her dress, Quinn with tangled hair. You try not to laugh but then Quinn starts fishing around in her purse for some money—they pay you a salary but sometimes extra when they run late—and you say, "Really, it's okay," because they both kind of smell like tequila and Rachel's hand is drifting toward Quinn's ass with this little smirk on her face. Quinn emerges with a small, "Aha!" and a one-hundred euro bill, and hands them it to you, asks, "Is this okay? I don't know where the rest of my American cash is and the exchange rate is—"

You laugh and so does Rachel, and you say, "Really, you don't need to pay me anything extra for—"

Quinn practically shoves the bill into your hand and slurs, "You've just been so great."

Rachel kisses Quinn's shoulder and Quinn's eyes flutter for a moment, and you can't really see one of Rachel's hands somewhere behind Quinn's back, and really you need to leave as quickly as possible, so you move to gather your laptop, and then you turn toward them.

"We haven't—" Rachel's brow furrows— "this is our first time having sex since I finished filming."

Quinn blushes but she smiles, and for as mildly gross as this is, they're still stupidly adorable together.

"I'll leave you to it, then," you say, and Rachel launches herself forward to give you a slightly unsteady hug and a sloppy and very alcohol-saturated kiss on the cheek, and Quinn's hug is stiffer but kind. "Good night, guys," you say, and they wave with a few giggles.

You don't even make it out of the foyer before you hear a zipper and Quinn's "Oh god, baby," and you lock up faster than you ever had before.

You get there early the next morning—Rachel has press interviews and Quinn has a seminar—and both of them look exhausted, and, of course, they're wearing thick scarves. Quinn looks embarrassed but Rachel playfully hipchecks her while she's buttering toast, and they kiss gently before Quinn says, "Did I give you euro last night?"

You laugh with a nod, and she laughs too. "Do you want American cash?"

"It's fine," you say, and go to kiss the top of Nora's head while she sits in her high chair generally making a mess of her cheerios.

They both thank you again, slightly sheepishly, but then Rachel just ends up laughing and Quinn groans and says, "Quieter, honey, please."

Rachel smiles and Quinn rolls her eyes, ushers her wife out of their brownstone with a gentle hand to the small of her back.

Nora starts laughing and you pick her up. "Your moms are silly, aren't they, Nor?"

She moves to tug on your hair with a grin. Her eyes are almost Quinn's hazel, and her skin is darker like Rachel's, and she's beautiful, and you love her quite a lot. "Let's go to the park, yeah?" you ask.

She nods a little and you bundle her up and get her stroller ready, and yeah, it feels pretty good to be a part of all of the warmth here.


End file.
